


Blood and Steel

by e_va



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Ambiguously Canon Divergent (on account of season 2), Blood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, but this is really just 7000 words of diego and five interaction, diego accidentally makes five cry but they are both trying there very best, the other sibs are mentioned, this family loves each other!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25602169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_va/pseuds/e_va
Summary: Diego gets shot.  Five is evasive.  There is a bit of an emotional reckoning, and neither of them are even vaguely equipped for it.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy & Diego Hargreeves
Comments: 62
Kudos: 843





	Blood and Steel

**Author's Note:**

> this is perhaps a touch OOC because if I had the energy for it i would write approximately 500000 words building up to five having an emotional breakdown because that boy is so very good at repressing his trauma, but c'est la vie
> 
> also this fic is chock full of my own little headcanons, most of which will probably be debunked in a little over 24 hours, but thats ok because they make me happy.
> 
> sorry for grammar/spelling mistakes on account of the fact that editing is hard and i just wanted to post this and be free
> 
> Additional TW that I couldn't quite figure out how to voice in the tags: there's slight reference to Five's canonical hallucinations as a result of trauma and years of isolation. take care of yourselves, y'all.

No one has ever tried to kill Five in a 7-Eleven before. But then, there’s a first time for everything. 

Actually, Five reflects, this might be his first time in a 7-Eleven that isn’t just a pile of rubble and bodies. They’re on the corner of Fourth and Bludhaven, an area that Five raided for supplies more than once in his youth. It’s strange to see what the place looks like while standing.

What a shame that Five can’t take a moment to bask in the nostalgia of it. Maybe he’ll come back later. But right now he and Diego are pinned on all sides by Commission thugs firing on them with machine guns, and Five really just needs to get his head on straight.

There are only four of their attackers left standing, which is a fraction of the number that Five knows he can handle.

Except Diego’s been shot in the leg and Five is out of weapons. The ballpoint pen he keeps in his pocket is across the room, already sticking out of someone’s trachea. He’d choked two grunts out with his tie until Diego, in an utterly useless attempt to help, had thrown one of his knives into the last guy’s throat and cut it right in half.

Wait. 

Five’s hands fly to his blazer immediately. Where _is_ it? God _damn_ this stupid, small body and the Umbrella Academy’s tiny fucking uniform and its tiny fucking shorts and with no pockets anywhere.

“What are you doing?” Diego says from his position on the floor. The sight of Five patting himself down frantically is apparently enough to catch Diego’s attention, even if he is clearly getting a little drowsy from blood loss. It’s almost alarming to see Diego, normally so temperamental and passionate, looking sedate and unsteady. Five can only reassure himself with the fact that it doesn’t look like the bullet hit anything immediately vital. Diego will be fine, presuming that Five gets them out of here in a timely manner.

Which means that he needs to _focus_.

“Shut up,” Five snaps, peeking his head over the counter to peer out at the bloodied store, one of his hands finally finding the familiar blade. 

He’s never used this in a fight before. He’d never wanted to—it had never been for that. It had just been for him. It had been something to hold on to, an indulgence that he’d allowed himself and maintained over the years. But he and Diego will be in deep shit if he doesn’t use it, and all things considered, there really will never be a more appropriate time to christen it than right now.

The cool steel is comforting under his hand, pinched delicately in his grip. Five is loath to part with it, even if only for a moment, but there’s no point in wrestling with himself over it when Diego is right here, next to him and _hurt_. That thought makes it easier. Five takes a breath—stows away the part of him that wants to kneel down and put pressure on Diego’s leg, the part that cares about hoarding items and sentimental value. 

Five twirls the blade once, just to get a sense of how it feels in his hand.

It’s just as Five remembers: a spectacularly well-balanced blade. For all their father’s many flaws, he never did skimp on their equipment. Then he ducks around the corner and throws it.

It glints under the fluorescent lights as it spins towards its target, just enough to catch the man’s attention. His mouth opens, as if to shout a warning, and then the blade takes him in the chest.

It’s a testament to Five’s unfamiliarity with the blade that it doesn’t hit anywhere more vital, but it also doesn’t really matter. The second that the blade leaves his fingers, Five is throwing himself after it. And just as quickly as it sinks into the Commission agent’s chest, Five is there in a flash of blue light to pull it out and bring it down somewhere slightly more fatal. 

The man gurgles slightly—not dead but dying. It isn’t his cleanest work, but Five doesn’t spare much thought beyond a little disappointment in his own technique. Even if the man is suffering, it won’t be for very long

The three surviving members of the team are already reacting, but they aren’t quick enough, especially not now that Five has used the blade and has a better grasp of its balance—of how hard and how fast he needs to throw it in order to make his first strike a killing one.

He gives the others faster, kinder deaths than he gave their friend.

Five sighs heavily once it’s done, staring down at his work. Yeah, this is definitely not his best. The knife is nice though, even if they still really aren’t his thing. He wipes the flat of it on his trousers before twirling it idly in his hand and doing the same to the other side. Five’s never much favored knives. Guns are easier, cleaner, and distance is still the best advantage you can give yourself in a fight, but there’s something artful about blades that even Five can appreciate.

“Huh,” Five says thoughtfully, to himself. 

There’s a quiet whimper from behind the counter.

Ah, shit. Five teleports over to the counter, leans over to stare at the other side.

“Excuse me,” he says, holds his hands up as nonthreateningly as he can. The cashier flinches, trembling as she peers at Five from behind the register. Her yellow cardigan is rumpled and the plastic nametag that says _Jenny_ is askew, but she seems otherwise unharmed. Her eyes flicker towards the knife still in Five’s hand. 

Whoops.

Five grimaces apologetically. 

“Do you have a phone?” he asks, reaching into his blazer to tuck the knife back into place.

The cashier nods frantically, apparently still mute with fear. 

Five sighs. “Great. I need to call my sister.”

The cashier stands, thoroughly cowed but hopefully convinced that Five really has no interest in killing her, and shakily makes her way down the counter to the other side of the store, where a rotary phone is sitting. She picks it up from her side of the counter and then delicately sets it down closer to Five, pushing it towards him as if in offering. 

“Here,” she says, finally breaking their silence.

“Thanks,” says Five. “Jenny.” He smiles at her as patiently as he can. The cashier shrinks back nervously. Huh. Klaus had said, once, that Five had a smile that made him look like a particularly hungry shark sizing up a school of fish. Five had called bullshit at the time, but he’s starting to think that Klaus is better with people than he is.

“A-aren’t you going to call an ambulance?” Jenny-the-cashier ventures. “For your dad?”

“He’s _not_ my father,” Five says, a bit sharply, and then sighs heavily.

Whatever. He’s not here to bully some college student for assuming that he’s as young as he looks, no matter how much he might like to. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Five tells her. “Once my sister picks us up, you can call the police and get on with your day.”

Five is halfway through dialing Allison—because he is apparently ‘bad at driving’ and Diego is still leaking blood a few feet away—when his stomach twists unpleasantly. 

He pauses, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully. The last time he’d eaten had been sometime late last night. Considering how much he’d used just his powers, he must be well through his energy reserves by now.

“Hey,” he says, and the cashier jumps.

“Yeah?” she says.

“Do you have peanut butter?”

“Seriously, Five?” Allison grouses. “Our brother gets shot and you stop to grab sandwich ingredients?”

“He’s fine,” says Five, examining the bag of bread he’d grabbed. Only two days away from its _best by_ date. Oh well. At least he hadn’t paid for it.

“I am _not_ fine,” Diego said. Being forced to limp to the car had woken him up, taking him from sluggish back to prickly. “I got shot.” He gestures sharply down to his leg, now swathed with pastel yellow cloth thanks to Jenny-the-cashier tentatively offering up her cardigan as a bandage while they waited for Allison.

“Big deal,” says Five. He’d almost been _relieved_ when Diego had started to perk up. In retrospect, he should have known what he was inviting upon himself.

“I swear to God,” Diego’s voice is an irritable growl. He sits up, indignant, and then cringes. A patch of red blossoms on the yellow fabric.

“Don’t be stupid,” Five chides.

“Hey,” says Allison, though there’s no real heat to her voice. “I’ll do worse than shoot you if you bleed on my car.”

Five checks out as soon as they get back to the house, dropping his groceries off in the kitchen and leaving Grace and Pogo to tend to Diego’s injury. Diego really _will_ be fine. Thanks to their father being freak, their infirmary is as well-stocked with supplies as any hospital. Plus, Grace’s programming means that she can perform brain surgery on the fly with a precision that would leave the world’s top hospitals slavering at the mouth.

It feels weird returning to his room, even now. It’s a remnant of the past; a shrine to a boy lost to time. It’s even worse now that Dolores is gone. Without her there, nothing about the room has changed at all. Nothing except the boy who lives in it. Even his siblings don’t know the magnitude of it. Ideally, they never will.

Well, that’s an unsettling thought. One that Five would really rather not waste his time with, considering that the Commission could be sending more of their dogs any day. Any moment, actually. 

His chalk is on his bedside dresser and he picks it up, dragging his desk chair to the room’s far wall before he clambers onto it in order to reach one of the few patches of wall still left untouched. It’s easy to lose himself in his equations, in the search for right and wrong, in the location of precise probabilities. Even when he has nothing else, he still has his numbers.

“Hey, Five,” Diego drawls. 

Five doesn’t jump—doesn’t teeter on his perch. That would imply that he had been surprised.

He simply…descends with less grace than he otherwise might have liked.

“Jesus,” Five spits, picking himself up with a beleaguered sigh and brushing imaginary dirt off his lapels. “Learn to knock, Diego. And for fuck’s sake, aren’t you an invalid? I’m surprised Grace even let you out of bed.”

Diego rolls his eyes. “My hands are a little full right now, you little shit,” he says, shrugging his shoulders pointedly as if to draw attention to the crutch he has under one shoulder and the plate he has in the other hand.

Five tilts his head, staring at the incomprehensible offering. “What the fuck is that supposed to be?”

Diego draws his back up straight, a little defensive. “It’s one of your fucking…whatchamacallit sandwiches. The ones that’ll give you diabetes.”

Hm. Now there’s a thought. Five really should have kept track of all the things that the Commission had done, because quite frankly, he’s not sure what implications it will have regarding his health. It’s something to keep in mind for sure. “I meant _why did you make it,_ dumbass?”

“Because I—” Diego splutters, going red in the face. “Jesus Christ, whatever. Take it or don’t. Ungrateful bastard,” he mutters that last part under his breath, hobbling across the room and setting the plate down on Five’s dresser. 

Five stares at the sandwich. It’s misshapen and lumpy, so he knows that Diego didn’t just ask Grace to do it. He actually made it himself, on crutches, mere hours after getting shot in the leg. 

That’s…significant.

Significant evidence that Diego’s an idiot, at least.

Still, though, the effort is almost touching. In its own way.

“Thanks,” Five concedes.

“You’re welcome?” Diego sounds confused by the expression of gratitude. “You alright, man? You’re staring at the thing like it holds the all the secrets of the universe.”

“Hm?” Five glances back up towards Diego, who is leaning forward and giving Five an evaluative stare. “I’m fine. Just thinking.” He gestures in the general direction of his equations.

Diego tilts his head up so he can stare at the calculations that Five had been working on before he’d been interrupted, just one spot of many in a room where every wall and parts of the ceilings are packed tightly with them. It’s only a moment before his face starts to scrunch up, and only another before his brow furrows and his eyes narrow, as if _staring_ really hard will somehow help him understand it.

“Five, what’s that?”

Five has to resist the urge to scoff. “I’d explain, but somehow I doubt you have the mental capacity to comprehend it.”

“I—” Diego cuts himself off prematurely, still staring at the wall before he swears, turning to Five accusatorily. “Is that _blood_?”

Five stops in place, blinking, before glancing back at the patch of wall where he’d been working.

Oh. It’s hard to see from down here—it just looks like unclear patches of writing where his hands might have brushed against the chalk and smudged it. But sure enough, closer examination reveals that there are traces of blood smeared on his wall.

“Are you hurt?” Diego asks, voice a growl.

Huh, well that’s interesting. Five pauses, taking a moment to mentally catalogue his physical state. 

“Well?” Diego says, eyes blazing. He’s already hobbling closer. Jesus Christ. This family.

“It’s probably not mine,” Five says absently.

“Probably?” Diego’s voice rises a pitch.

“I’m _thinking,_ ” Five says. His stomach is still twisting in on itself. Perhaps he better eat Diego’s sandwich after all. 

“About whether or not you’re hurt?” Diego sounds like he’s about to have some sort of breakdown. 

“Don’t get hysterical,” Five says mildly. In addition to the hunger, there’s the ache that comes the beginnings of bruising on his fists and forearms, an inevitable result of unarmed strikes. And…and there is something sharper. A quiet, painful pulse in his right hand. Five lifts it slightly and then winces. Well, that explains it.

Throwing knives, with their smooth, rounded edges, are not meant for stabbing. And the blade had been so sharp that Five hadn’t even noticed when his grip had slid from the handle to the blade. There’s a diagonal slash running across his palm, and another across his fingers. His hand is red and sticky—it must have been bleeding heavily earlier, but has since slowed to almost nothing, the shine of fresh blood only appearing when he cautiously flexes his fingers, which pulls on the skin around the injury.

“Damn,” he says. “And this was my second jacket this week.” Five wipes his hand on his sleeve, hoping that that will get rid of the worst of the mess.

“What? Five!” Diego catches his Five’s wrist in his hand, and Five can’t stop himself from going still and tense. It’s only consideration for Diego’s poor balance on his crutch that keeps him from wrenching his arm out of Diego’s grip.

“Yes?” Five says, voice tight. He considers pulling free anyways and just letting Diego eat shit. It would certainly be satisfying. 

“Just fucking…” Diego sighs. He finally drops Five’s wrist in favor of putting a hand on Five’s shoulder and gently pushing him towards the bed. “Sit down, okay?”

Five complies, if only because it’s the only way for him to actually get Diego off his back.

“Where are you going?” he asks when Diego starts hobbling out of the room and down the hallway.

“I’ll be right back!” Diego calls, in lieu of offering an actual answer. 

He doesn’t go far. Only about ten feet down the hall, if the awkward thudding of his feet and the crutch are any indication. There’s the sound of a cupboard opening, a frustrated swear, and then finally the sound of Diego limping back in his direction.

“Really?” Five says, when Diego finally gets back into the room. He finds himself unable to resist giving the first aid kit a disdainful glare. “It’s not necessary, I assure you.”

“Man,” Diego says, “do you _want_ to get an infection or some shit?”

“I’m going to shower later,” Five says. “Vanya just ran a bath so there isn’t any hot water.”

“Yeah, well better safe than sorry. Also, I’m horrified that you apparently think _taking a shower_ is how you clean an injury.” Diego practically drops onto the bed next to Five, eyeing the injured hand carefully as he opens the kit. “Now are you gonna let me look or should I get Grace?”

Five hesitates, and then holds his hand out, defeated. Diego’s here now, and he’s more likely to forget about this once Five’s satisfied him than Grace is.

Diego takes a closer look at the slash, hissing sympathetically under his breath as he does. “This is going to sting,” he cautions, pulling out the rubbing alcohol. 

Five can’t help but scoff. “Hardly,” he says.

Diego doesn’t grace that with a response, focusing too deeply on cleaning out the bloody wound as gently as possible. Every once in a while, when he accidentally goes a little faster than he apparently means to, he pauses in place and glances nervously up at Five. But when he sees Five sitting there, stoic and still, he turns back to his work.

Finally, as if to break the uncomfortable silence that has fallen between them, Diego whistles a low, admiring note. “Must have been a good knife, to cut you so deep without you even noticing.”

Five bites his tongue, doesn’t mention how pain is much stranger to him these days than it was before. Doesn’t talk about how a vital part of an assassin’s skillset is the ability to compartmentalize discomfort. That would involve giving voice to a truth that otherwise goes unsaid—a fact about him that his siblings all know but can’t quite force themselves to comprehend, so instead it sits in the air between them, and it will continue to do so until it goes sour and unpleasant.

“One of the best,” Five says instead, which is true enough.

“Can I see it?” There’s a glint of excitement in Diego’s eyes now, and Five can’t even fault him for it. Knives have always been Diego’s thing. Five had always thought that Diego would have been a knife nut even if they didn’t work so well with his powers. “Gotta admit, I’m kinda curious to see what sorta knives they hand out to time assassins.”

“They don’t,” Five says. He doesn’t want to, but he’s already reaching into his jacket for the blade. Diego deserves to know, if he really wants to.

He runs his thumb along the ridged hilt and then sets it delicately on top of the med-kit, in plain sight.

Diego is still. He stares at it for a long moment, and Five can practically feel the realization settling in the air around them.

“Huh,” says Diego slowly, turning deliberately back to Five’s hand with a faux-casual drawl to his voice. “Didn’t realize you were breaking into my closet. Stealing my things. Sure you’re not actually our annoying younger sibling?”

So that’s how Diego wants to play it. Fine.

Five shrugs. “What can I say? It was so shiny. It was…practically irresistible.”

He shoots Diego his falsest smile.

Diego sets the rubbing alcohol off to the side. He doesn’t avert his gaze from Five’s hand, reaching an arm out blindly and patting the first aid kit beside him until his fingers close around a roll of gauze.

“Uh huh,” Diego says. “Except I can’t help but think I would have noticed if one of my knives was missing.”

“Really?” Five says. “Well that _is_ strange.”

“Five,” Diego sounds exasperated. “I’m not mad.”

Five can’t keep himself from arching an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you were.”

“Dammit, Five,” Diego says. “Come on. Stop playing games.”

Five doesn’t bother repressing his snort. As if _he_ is the one screwing around. Diego clearly knows where Five really got the knife.

“I have more important things to do than toy with you, Diego,” Five reminds him. “And even if I didn’t, I’m too old and too tired for it.”

Diego pauses, blinks once as he stares down at Five. “Huh,” he says.

“What?”

“I’m just…not ever going to get used to hearing you talk like that,” Diego says. “Y’know. Like you’re older than us. I know—” he tacks on hurriedly, either predicting Five’s irritation or reading it on his face, “that you _are_. But it’s strange.”

Five shuts his mouth with a click. He can’t think of any way to respond that isn’t biting, so he settles for making a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. 

Diego sits patiently, wrapping Five’s hand with practiced ease.

“It just seemed wasteful,” Five finally says, because Diego is apparently done walking circles around the topic.

“Wasteful?”

“It was the end of the world,” Five shrugs listlessly. “Just burying them with you…I guess it didn’t seem like what you would have wanted.”

“You buried us?” Diego’s voice rises with surprise. 

“Why wouldn’t I have?” Five says.

“I just…” Diego trails off, lapsing into silence. He averts his gaze for a moment and stares at Five’s hand instead as he smooths the gauze bandage down and applies the medical tape to keep it in place. Then he turns Five’s hand over in his and just holds it. 

“That must have been hard,” Diego says abruptly. “I dug a grave once. Not for a person. For Eudora’s dog. Took me like two hours.”

“Mm,” Five flexes the fingers of his injured hand and contemplates pulling it away. “They weren’t very deep,” he admits, because it’s true. “Three feet, maybe. It was all I could do.”

“That’s okay. Not like we were there to mind,” Diego says with a wry grin, as if Five doesn’t already _know_ that. At the sight of the frustrated twist of Five’s lips, the smile drops off of Diego’s face like a heavy weight. “It’s, uh, good though.”

Five stares. “Good that you weren’t there?” he agrees with that sentiment, privately, but for very different reasons than he suspects Diego means.

But Diego jerks back, gives Five a look that’s almost comedically affronted.

“No, of course not!” he says. Five frowns, opens his mouth, but Diego is already barreling on. “That you kept them, I mean.” He reaches it out with his free hand, picks the knife— _his_ knife—off the top of the first aid kit. The knife fits into his palm like it belongs there. Diego turns it over, examining it with no small measure of curiosity. “It’s in good shape.”

Five shrugs. “I didn’t actually use it that much.”

Diego stares at him for a second, slack-jawed and offended. “You _what_?” he says, drawing the knife closer to his chest.

“Calm down,” Five says, before Diego can work himself up any further. “Don’t take it personally. There was no one around for me to kill during the Apocalypse. And once I was with the Commission…” he sighs heavily. “Well. You know.”

Diego blinks. “I do not,” he says, but at least seems reassured that Five had meant no offense.

“You would if you were smarter,” Five says, just to make sure he’s not coming across as too conciliatory. Diego shuts his mouth with a click, shooting Five a dark glare at the familiar insult. Five’s lips quirk upwards against his own will. 

“Guns,” Five clarifies. “They gave me guns. Bit cleaner.”

Diego exhales sharply through his nose. “I don’t know about _that.”_

“You ever tried to wash blood out of a suit?” Five asks. He doesn’t wait for Diego to respond; Diego has never worn a suit in his goddamn life. “Don’t bother. Trust me.”

Diego grimaces. “Ew,” he says. Then he pauses, averts his gaze and shifts his feet. “So, uh…with the Commission—”

Jesus Christ, this is uncomfortable. Watching Diego try to stumble his way through emotional conversation, Five thinks, is like watching a child trying to drive a car. It’s painfully halting, and someone is inevitably going to get hurt. 

He lifts his uninjured hand and tries not to relish in the fact that Diego falls immediately silent. 

“Don’t overthink it, Diego,” Five says. 

“I just mean,” Diego seems to be floundering. He drops a hand onto Five’s shoulder. The gesture is, at worst, awkward. Diego’s not applying any pressure, not resting any weight on Five. But it still feels immeasurably heavy. “All those years. The, uh,” Diego scrunches up his face. “The killing. It must have been hard.”

Five thinks about the handgun he keeps in his bedside drawer. About his Commission-issued rifle, and the annoyance of trying to get blood out of white cloth. Thinks: _I’ve done harder_ and _by no small margin, either_. But he doubts that’s what Diego wants to hear.

He swallows down the taste of ash and jerks himself free of Diego’s grasp, teleporting to the other side of the room. Five leans against his dresser so that he’s watching Diego from an angle. He picks up the sandwich and takes a bite just to mask the bitterness in his mouth.

 _You were always a killer_ , the Handler says into his ear. He’d swear to God that he can feel her breath on his cheek. But that can’t be right. His back is to the wall.

Five finishes choking down a mouthful of bread. Stares at Diego, who is stilled propped on the bed with an arm half-outstretched, because he needs to look at something real.

“Would that make you feel better?” Five asks quietly. He reaches up and scratches the goosebumps rising on his neck.

Diego frowns. For a moment he sits there, frozen. And then he groans, dropping his hands back into his lap, very apparently frustrated.

“For fuck’s sake, Five,” Diego says. “Can’t you ever give a straight answer?”

“I think,” Five tells him, as diplomatically as he can, “that there are things about me you’re happier not knowing.”

“But—”

“Besides,” Five puts the sandwich back down on the table—everything tastes like dirt right now anyways—and crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re the one who got shot. Don’t fuss over _me_ to deflect.”

Diego grits his teeth. “I’m not deflecting.”

“I think you are.”

“Am not!”

Five smiles. “You are.”

“ _No I’m not_ ,” Diego hisses, and then freezes in place. “Hold on, you son of a bitch. I’m not gonna fall for that.”

“You sort of did,” Five says.

“Nuh-uh,” Diego shakes his head, jabs an accusatory finger in Five’s direction. “I _let_ Grace stitch me up—”

“How mature. I’m proud.”

“Fuck off. Luther gave me a lecture and then, get this, offered to cook me dinner. And _Vanya_ dropped by the infirmary to check on me.”

Five raises an eyebrow. “And how did _that_ go?”

Diego makes an offended noise. “Fine! That’s my point,” he gives Five a glare. “It went fine! I have done my time. I am _working_ on this hot mess.” He gestures to the far wall, as if to say: _this fucking family_. “You are the one who immediately squirrelled yourself away in your room for three hours. So I think _you_ are the one deflecting onto me.”

“Unlike you all,” Five says, “I don’t have the emotional maturity of a toddler.”

“Well that,” Diego says, voice rising, “is the biggest crock of shit I ever heard!”

“Well, I suppose you’d know.”

Diego’s eyes darken. Five grins, satisfied. He still knows how to hit Diego’s buttons. 

Then Diego exhales, blowing out a long, tension-filled breath. “No. No. You know what, Five? You don’t get to do this.”

“I can do whatever I want,” Five says, stiffening. He goes to shift back a step, but the edge of the dresser collides uncomfortably with his spine. Shit.

“We had shitty fucking childhoods,” Diego says, ignoring him. “And everything got so much worse after you left. Dad fucking doubled down on any disobedience. No one talked to Vanya, except Ben sometimes, and he was never—he was dealing with his own shit too, y’know? And dad hung up that stupid fucking portrait.”

Five’s breath catches in his chest. “I—” he starts, but Diego is rambling now.

“Just,” he gestures, “this portrait of you. Right where everyone could see it. And this magazine guy came by once, did a human-interest piece. There was all this flowery shit about how you were dead, but not gone, which—you know, in retrospect I guess that was kind of the opposite of the truth. But he talked about how great it was that dad this to, like, keep your memory alive. Except, y’know, we all knew the truth. That he hung that big fucking picture up there to remind us all exactly what happens to kids that disobey orders.”

Diego’s voice is choked. He’s staring at the ground, and Five can’t make himself look away, his own face feeling painfully hot, though whether from shame or dawning horror he’s unsure.

“And I don’t know. Just. None of us took it well. You can guess, uh, with Vanya. But the rest of us too. I mean, Luther got even more obsessed with following dad’s rules. Klaus _really_ started to spiral of the deep end about then. And Ben was—” Diego’s voice cracks and falters. “And I was so fucking angry. All the time. And don’t get me wrong, Ben…the Umbrella Academy died with him. But I don’t know. Sometimes I think losing you is what ruined us.” Diego leans over, buries his face in his hands. “Fuck.”

Five inhales. It feels like trying to breathe underwater. “I know,” he says. The words come out raspy and unsteady. He’d read Vanya’s book. 

It’s nothing that he hasn’t already thought to himself before. That first year in the Apocalypse, reading Vanya’s autobiography in the smoldering remains of civilization. At first it had been just— _if I can get back, I can stop it._ But it had gotten worse when he hit adulthood. His twenties. Worse, his thirties and forties—far older than any of siblings ever got to be.

He thinks about Vanya, in her broom-closet sized room, practicing her violin for hours on end. Alone. Because he wasn’t there. The extra training, because suddenly there were five children instead of six. And Ben—Ben—Vanya’s book hadn’t contained much description of his death. She’d described the way the others had come back into the house: shoulders hunched, blood-spattered, and shaking, bitterly silent as they marched up the stairs, even when Vanya trotted desperately after them, even when Vanya caught Klaus by the jacket sleeve and asked: _Where’s Ben?_

And she’d described the scene as it was shown on the news, because Vanya hadn’t been there to see it, and their siblings had been too crippled with grief to say it, and Reginald did not care enough to tell her. So Vanya had found out from the news instead. 

The sparseness of Vanya’s description had been worse, Five thinks, than if she’d been explicit about it. Five knows his intelligence is too much for his own good sometimes, and it’s—it’s too easy to visualize Ben’s own monster turning on him. It’s too easy for Five to get creative with it.

The portal splitting him open wider, the raw viscera—

He wonders if Ben had passed out. More likely than not, he was conscious for most of it. Dad’s tests would have given Ben a near-inhuman tolerance for pain.

Five should have been there. He wouldn’t have let it get that far. He--

 _Losing you is what ruined us_.

“I’m sorry,” Five says. His voice sounds hoarse and awful, barely above a whisper.

“Don’t fucking apologize,” Diego says, straightening up indignantly. Then he stops short, clearly thrown. His face softens, and when he speaks next it’s surprisingly gentle. “Five? Shit.” 

He stands up, accidentally jostling the crutch off of the bed as he does. It hits the floor with a thud, but Diego opts to step over it instead. His injured leg can clearly barely hold his weight.

“Sit down, you idiot,” Five says raggedly, starting forward when Diego nearly collapses on his next step.

“Nope,” Diego says, through obvious pain. He almost falls onto Five—drops one forearm onto Five’s shoulder and catches himself on the dresser with his other hand.

Five reaches out, steadies Diego at the waist, because his brother still looks perilously close to faceplanting on the floor. But Diego pivots into it, wraps his arms around Five, turning it into a hug.

“What are you doing?” Five says, muffled by Diego’s chest.

“Dude,” Diego says. “You’re fucking crying.”

Five almost protests, except…he thinks Diego might be right. That would explain why breathing is so hard all of a sudden, and the burning in his eyes would make more sense too. And now that he’s paying attention, his face does feel strangely damp.

“Oh,” Five says, and—as if realizing that he was crying was the last thing his body needed to start behaving entirely against his will—the next noise that tears out of him sounds suspiciously like a sob. “Shit.”

“Oh fuck,” Diego says. He rubs Five’s back with one hand, reaching up to clumsily pat the back Five’s head with the other. “Uh…shhhhhh.”

“Don’t fucking shush me,” Five snaps. His angry voice sounds much less impressive through tears.

“Okay! Okay! Sorry!” Diego sounds so bewildered, so deeply out of his element, that some of the irritation lancing through Five’s chest fades.

“I—” Five says. It’s strangely hard to think while crying. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t done it in so long. He can’t really remember. He cried a lot, the first few months in the Apocalypse, and occasionally in the years that followed. But at some point…at some point he just hadn’t anymore. “I should leave.”

There’s a beat.

“What?” Diego says, grip tightening, like he thinks he can keep Five from vanishing with the force of his embrace alone.

“I’m supposed to—” Five’s breath is ragged, painful. He should have seen this earlier. “I’m supposed to protect you. But the Commission is after me. You aren’t safe if I’m around. And I’m trying to do better than before—”

“Woah, woah,” Diego says. “Than before?”

“I should leave,” Five says again, because it’s the only thing that makes sense through the haze of panic that’s setting in.

“I gave that whole speech,” Diego says, disbelieving, “and you took away the exact wrong thing. How are you so fucking dumb?”

“What?” Five’s doesn’t bother trying to hide his frustration. “I—”

“It’s not your fucking job to protect us,” Diego tells him.

“You don’t know anything, Diego,” Five says. 

“I—I—” Diego falters. “Fuck, I’m the worst person to have this talk with you. I…okay, you know what? You’re right. I don’t know jack shit about what your job is now. I don’t know. I’m not the fucking career police.”

“You sound like an idiot.”

“Oh, trust me. I know. I also know a couple other things though. Like—okay, for one,” Diego clears his throat. Five takes a moment to contemplate how ridiculous it is that Diego somehow hasn’t let him go yet. “Why the fuck would you leaving protect us? The Commission’s trying to kickstart the Apocalypse. Or they were, and they’re mad as hell at us for stopping it—I’m gonna be totally honest. I don’t really know what they’re mad about.”

“Jesus Christ, Diego,” Five says wetly.

“But whatever they’re up to,” Diego continues. “They’re after _us_. Splitting up just makes us more vulnerable.”

“They really don’t hate you like they hate me,” Five tells him, but it’s kind of hard to think of a way around Diego’s ultimate point. He probably could, if he was determined enough. But he’s so tired.

“Second,” Diego says. “Even if you think it’s your job to protect us now, it wasn’t when you were thirteen. I’m sure you tried, because that was the kind of little bastard you were, but it wasn’t your _job_. It was dad’s job, and guess what? He doesn’t get to dodge that, or any of his other many, many moral failings, by passing the buck to you. That shit I said—I meant—what I was trying to tell you was that,” Diego huffs a breath, like the admission pains a little, “you know. I meant that we loved you. Love you. And losing you was…bad. We kind of don’t want to do it again.”

Five sucks in a breath. “You know, Diego, I’m kind of impressed,” he says, and to his surprise his voice is almost steady this time. “That almost sounded emotionally aware.”

“I know,” Diego says with a shudder, even as he tucks Five closer against him. “So don’t make me say that shit again. I don’t know if my body can take it. I might just drop dead.”

“Fine, fine, I get it,” Five says. He’s breathing a little better now, and with his head clearing up he almost feels a little embarrassed. Buried somewhere in Diego’s long, halting speech were some fair points. Things Five feels like he probably should have thought of himself.

He swats ineffectually at Diego’s ribs, just hard enough to sting. “I’m not actually going anywhere. You’re all children and you’d die without me.”

Diego laughs, then reaches down and ruffles his hand through Five’s hair as he finally breaks the hug.

Five can’t repress the indignant noise he makes. He reaches up, flattens his hair and desperately tries to get it back into sorts. “Fuck you, Diego,” he says archly. 

Diego sticks his tongue out.

Five rolls his eyes, then glances down and grimaces. He looks even more filthy than he feels, still flaking dried blood all over the place. And his face, while no longer damp, feels strangely sticky. 

“I’m taking a shower,” Five declares. “Tell Vanya that if she’s used all the hot water, she’s dead to me.”

“Tell her yourself,” Diego says. “Shouldn’t you eat first?”

Five grimaces. Maybe Diego sees the it, or maybe it’s just good timing, because Diego says: “Actually, fuck that sandwich,” and then reaches over, picks up meal in question, and chucks it into the trash can. “You need food with real nutrients. You’re eating dinner with us tonight.”

“Am I?” Five says. But Diego has that look in his eye—like a dog with a bone—which means that he’s not going to let this go. Plus, he just talked Five down from what may have been one of the worst panic attacks he’s had in years. Five already knows that he’s not going to be able to bring himself to refuse. Not right now.

“Yep. I’ll loop the others in. We can—we can all hang out in the living room and watch movies or something. It will be a family thing,” Diego says. Five wonders briefly if he’s accidentally ended up in an alternate dimension, because a month ago he couldn’t have comprehended of Diego wanting to arrange _family things_. “Take your shower, and then come down and eat dinner. Luther’s cooking.”

“Ugh,” Five says. 

“He’s actually not bad,” Diego says, and then grins viciously. “Plus, Grace is helping. So we’re safe. Probably.”

“Hm,” Five says, because he knows that he’s going to say yes, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make an ordeal out of it.

“Come on, Five,” Diego makes to push off the dresser and start walking. Five shoves him back. 

“You’re going to crack your skull open,” he says, and jumps to the other side of the room. He picks Diego’s crutch up off the ground and tosses it over. Diego catches it under his arm easily.

“Old man,” Diego says. “You’re no fun.”

“Oh yes,” Five says. “Ha ha. Concussions. Can’t have a real party without them.”

“Dinner!” Diego taps his crutch on the floor pointedly. “Eat dinner with us or I’ll tell the others.”

“Blackmail?” Five rolls his eyes. “How pedestrian.”

“You should indulge me,” Diego says. “Didn’t you hear? I’ve been shot. I’m an invalid.”

“Huh,” Five lifts a thoughtful hand to his chin, looks away so Diego can’t see him smile. “Well, I’m certainly not one to a refuse a request from the ill and the infirm.”

“Oh, well thank you for your charity,” Diego says. 

Five gives in and grins, bows mockingly. “My pleasure.”

“Don’t get your fucking bandages wet in the shower,” Diego says as he starts to hobble away. He’s halfway out the door when he suddenly stops and turns around.

“Something wrong?” Five asks.

“No, no. I just…” Diego stops in front of him. Reaches into his pocket and pulls out the knife. His knife. “Forgot to give this back.”

Five stops. Stares at it. The gleaming silver blade, laid out in an oblique line across Diego’s outstretched hand.

“Keep it,” he says, and is surprised to find that the words don’t bother him at all.

Diego pauses, clearly thrown. “Five—” he starts to protest.

“It’s fine. I don’t need it anymore.” Five reaches out, closes Diego’s hand around the grip of the knife again. “I was just taking care of it for a friend, anyways.”

**Author's Note:**

> come scream at me about the umbrella academy on [tumblr](https://e-vasong.tumblr.com) if you want


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